


Only the Worst Kind

by paranoiapersonified



Series: The Trash Ship Collection [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 70s, Cigarettes, Consent Issues, I am so sorry, Implied Twincest, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Incest, M/M, Non-Human Genitalia, Pedophilia, Possession, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, au where Ford is the twins grandfather, dubcon, non-human Bill, now updated with correct names, sort of, there is so much wrong with this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-03-01 22:57:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2790806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoiapersonified/pseuds/paranoiapersonified
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan misses his brother in the absolute worst kind of way. </p><p>A collection of (very nsfw) stories about Stanley Pines and his life. </p><p>Please read the tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Messed Up Something Big Pt I

**Author's Note:**

> I am _so_ sorry. _Please_ read the tags. If incest, huge age gaps, or demon genitalia bother you, this is really, really, really not the fic for you. Dipper's age is slightly ambiguous, but he's no older than 15. 
> 
> This first chapter and the next one go together, but after that the rest of the story might jump around in the timeline. I'm pretty sure chapter 3 is going to feature a teenage Stanford and Stanley. So far the tags are just for the first two chapters, but I'll probably add or change the tags and relationships as I write more.

Stan isn’t gentle. This is wrong, and he knows it—Jesus, doesn’t he—but he can’t seem to make himself stop. Dipper’s small mouth is soft and warm against his, pliant and only _just_ responsive. Stan is pretty sure that Dipper’s never shared a kiss before, at least not a kiss like this. Stan is pushy and demanding, teeth and tongue and maybe just a bit of blood. Dipper groans and Stan’s not sure at all if it’s pleased or pained.

For his part, Dipper keeps up like a champ, despite the cheap brandy coursing through his veins. Stan is aware that, even if it were the only issue with what was happening here, Dipper’s consent would be dubious at best. But the kid still manages to kiss back, and when Stan slips a hand under the hem of his shirt and takes that moment to nip at his jaw, he just tilts his head back and gasps in a way that Stan responds to in the best—worst—way.

Dipper’s hands—so smooth and small still, _fuck_ —come to rest on Stan’s shoulders, like he doesn’t have a single clue what to do with them. He probably doesn’t, Stan knows, and it just adds to the twisted mantra of “You’re fucking up, you’re fucking up, you’re fucking up …” playing in repeat in his head. He _knows_ already, he tells himself. He _knows_ he’s fucking up again, but …

The way Dipper’s eyes flutter open lazily, warmly—

 _Fuck._ Stan’s breath catches in his throat as he remembers the exact same way someone he knew and loved and loved _too much_ years ago used to look at him.

Stans mouth is back on the child—fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , he’s just a _fucking kid_ —in a feverish way and Dipper just has no chance of keeping up this time, and Stan has no sympathy for the poor kid with his brother’s eyes and goofy smile and drunken laugh.

Stan doesn’t bother being gentle, because there is no place for gentleness in this clusterfuck of hate. He hates himself and how messed up he is, how messed up he has to be to do something _this_ degraded. He hates Dipper, too, he thinks. Mostly just for existing like he is, and for having his grandfather’s mouth and innocence and personality. He knows this isn’t fair to Dipper, not at all, but it isn’t fair to Stan either. How dare he. How dare he just … just remind him so much of that man he loved?

Dipper’s shirt is gone and his shorts are somewhere across the room and Stan is at least attentive where he is unforgiving. No inch of his skin has gone untouched. Dipper cries out as Stan finds his nipples, small and perked from the chill and from arousal, and rubs circles into them. Stan knows that Dipper is hard in his boxers, has felt it for a few minutes now, and the poor kid starts rutting in an uneven, sloppy rhythm against Stan’s stomach.

Stan’s mouth is trailing up Dipper’s neck, rushed and rattled and he knows that if anyone saw this, he’d look disgustingly needy and frantic. This is not a beautiful act. This is less than what Dipper deserves, but it’s far, far more than what Stan deserves. The kid is making these high, broken noises that send shocks down Stan’s spine and coil warmly in his gut.

Stan prays to god that Dipper thinks it’s all a nightmare in the morning. Or doesn’t remember it at all. With how much he drank, it’s possible that he’ll have lapses in his memory. But he also wants to brand the memory into Dipper’s skin, like a punishment for causing this. Stan settles for a small bite, right at the juncture of Dipper’s neck and shoulder. It’ll be gone by the morning, possibly gone in ten minutes, but Stan pulls back to see the red ring of teeth marks and the sight goes straight to his half hard dick. He takes a second to look at Dipper, to commit the sight to memory, something he knows he’ll never be able to forget, never want to, no matter how much he tries to drink it away. The boy is beautiful in his own way, and Stan is ruining him. Ruining him like he did to his grandfather over 40 years ago now. A mixture of nausea and _need_ rolls heavy in Stan’s gut as Dipper _whines_ and wriggles at Stan’s sudden stop. Stan knows the kid doesn’t really understand—can’t comprehend, thank the high heaven almighty—what is actually going on, but he lets himself think that Dipper knows what he is doing to Stan.

_Whatever makes it easier to stomach._

Stan’s hands trail up and down Dip’s sides, and Dipper’s eyes flutter at the the movement. Stan licks hips lips hungrily and does it once more. He gets a small puff of air this time and a whine before he drags both hands down to his waist and sliding a thumb under the waste band of his boxers. Dipper is still trying to roll his hips against Stan’s torso, but a firm grip stops him and Stan melts from the whine he lets out. “Fuck, kid…”

A thumb moves a little farther under the waist band, slides it down inch by inch, and suddenly Stan freezes. This is too much. Too far. It’s too late, Stan knows, to actually take it back, to pretend nothing happened, but he can’t bring himself to go any further. Dipper seems to notice the sudden lack of any movement, since his hips shift impatiently once, twice, then give an annoyed jostle, like a toddler stamping his foot, and if Stan’s erection hadn’t already been killed, that thought certainly would have done it for him.

Dipper slowly opens his eyes, but Stan can’t bring himself to meet them. He instead stares at the dark wall behind him. He opens his mouth to speak, searches for the right words that Dipper—hopefully, _oh god please don’t_ —won’t remember anyway.

_“Well don’t stop now, Stanley!”_

Stan tenses immediately at the echoey, tenor voice that seems to radiate from every corner of the room. Goddamn it. He squints hard at the wall again, and what Stan had just taken for darkness was actually the telltale monochrome of a certain demon.

_“Things were just getting good, right Pine Tree?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm only going to post more if anyone wants more? And if people are completely horrified by it, I'll take it down easy-peasy, no qualms what-so-ever.
> 
>  
> 
> **EDIT! So I have the email thing fixed, the next chapter should be up within the next week! Yay!! I'm also looking for a beta to read through and fix grammar and spelling mistakes, if anyone is interested.**


	2. Messed Up Something Big Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The continuation of Chapter 1. 
> 
> Bill wants to ~~join~~ ruin the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not at all the chapter I thought it was going to be when I wrote chapter 1. I rewrote this chapter at least 4 times, and none of them were ... exactly right. But it took me long enough, so here you go. I'll probably still rewrite part of this and edit, but I thought that if I didn't get it up now, it might take another week to get it to you all.
> 
> Adding/changing tags to fit the chapters.
> 
> Edit: There are more mistakes than I thought, sorry about that. They'll be fixed soon.
> 
> Edit (11/2/15): **I added a little extra to the end of this chapter!** This is actually something that I wanted to write back when I first wrote this chapter, but was it wasn't coming out right, and I was too fatigued and more interested in getting it published to keep trying. But it's there now! Just an extra hundred or so words to flesh out the ending a bit more.

The smoke is quick. It appears like a flash, blotting out the rest of the room like ink in water. It’s thick and opaque, with a corporal weight and an opalescent sheen over deep murky plum-black. It bellows out in waves that move unnaturally fast — faster than Stan’s eye can track — for how the fog-like cloud should move.

It winds around them both before Stan can think to move. And Stan _feels_ it, slick and very solid against his skin where it brushes— _wraps_ —around his arms, across his shoulders, and suddenly Stan is trapped.

“What the fuck, Cipher!” Stan yells, struggling against his confines. He’s pinned at the chest and upper arms, just tightly enough that Stan can’t get any real momentum to move or break them. Dipper’s eyes grow wide, no longer hazy with alcohol, and Stan catches them before the child is pulled roughly out of Stan’s lap with a small yelp. The smoke pulls him up, wrapping around his waist, before tendrils— _fucking tentacles_ —begin to form out of the amorphic shape, two of them wrapping themselves around Dipper’s upper thigh, another winding around his chest, leaving sticky, slick smears against the kid’s pale shining like an oil patch on asphalt.

Once Dipper is in the air, there is a fragile, stunned silence, and neither of them knows what to do or say. Dipper’s arms are frozen, up at shoulder height as if he’s going to reach for something but found nothing to grab. He’s panicking, eyes wild and widening, taking in the ethereal smoke, which twitches and jitters as it rests, like a cat’s tail, antsy.

“Dipper, it’s going to be okay,” Stan whispers, quiet but loud in the still air of the room, and Dipper’s eyes jerk back to him. Sweat, both from his previous state— _humping_ his great uncle—and from the current fear, has plastered his hair to his forehead, exposing his birthmark. It makes him look young, back when he was a toddler, tumbling around with his sister, hair too short and wispy to even begin to cover up his birthmark. And even though Stan knows that he was just doing something abhorrent, just ruining this child himself, he is filled with the desire, the need, to protect him. “It’s going to be alright.”

 _“I wouldn’t speak so soon, Stanley.”_ Bill chuckles, softly but growing loud, voice still echoing from different corners of the room. Before Stan knows what's happening, a new tendril wraps itself tightly around Dipper’s throat, and Dipper tries to gasp with a sickening choke and gurgle. His hands, reaching for the tentacle, are intercepted and pulled over his head, brought together by one winding, writhing tendril.

“Stop!” Stan watches in horror as his nephew chokes, trying to tug at the inky smoke holding him back, but it doesn’t budge.

A new tendril snakes up between Stan and Dipper, and Stan watches as it trails over Dipper’s face, leaving a slick, sticky trail. _“He’s so cute like this, wouldn’t you agree?”_ Bill’s voice resonates from directly behind Dipper this time. Bricks, glowing and yellow, tumble down from nowhere, falling into place in a pyramid pattern until the triangle is complete. Bill blinks up at Stan, eye creasing, as if he were smiling, even though he had no mouth. He laughs, placing his hands possessively on Dipper’s shoulders and leans over to look at Stan. The tendril caressing his face moves to his lips, circling them slowly, until it pushes into his open mouth with a brutal shove, pressing deeper, deeper into Dipper’s mouth than Stan would have thought was possible.

Dipper’s eyes squeeze shut, shaking his head as he gags, throat working hard to try to expel the tentacle as the one around his neck lessens, still writhing against his throat but no longer constricting. He starts to slow down in his struggles, arms stilling and throat bobbing less and less, and Stan is worried that the kid might finally be passing out.

“Stop!” Stan yells again, but all he gets is Bill’s laughter in response. He bucks wildly to try to break the hold the fog had on him, kicking out with his still-free legs, but it only makes the tendrils constrict, so tight that his lungs ache.

_“Watch, Stanley. This is the good part.”_

Stan glares at Bill, tries to say something again but the tentacle around his chest tightens even more, and nothing more than a wheeze comes out.

_Mmmmmnnnhhhhh._

Stan freezes, looking back at Dipper. The kid’s eyes are now open, heavily lidded and glazey, cheeks flushed. The tendrils in his mouth is still impossible deep—Stan can still see it thrusting in his throat—but his nephew is no longer panicking. Dipper groans again, eyes fluttering closed.

“What did you do?!”

 _“I taste delicious, don’t you know! He’s just … relaxing a bit more now. He’ll be fine.”_ Bill says, right as another tendril starts to sneak up between Dipper’s thighs, taking time to stroke the pale skin below where the underwear ends. It snakes its way up into one of the leg holes, and Dipper moans lowly—practically keens—as it works beneath the cotton.

Dipper groans again, muffled by the tendril in his mouth still constantly moving. Stan feels sick, fear and anger and nausea churning in his stomach, but there is an underlying heat that is getting harder to ignore. He swallows, tries to shift his gaze away from where the tendril was shifting and pumping frantically beneath Dipper’s boxers, from Dipper’s mouth—now drooling out some of the oily residue from the corner—but Bill notices. A tendril grabs his chin, moving his face roughly back into position.

_“This is all for you, Stanley. Don’t you like my present?”_

“You’re fucked up.”

Bill doesn’t reply right away, his eye narrowing at Stan, menacing but not dangerous. Not yet, at least. _“Stanley, I put more faith in you than this. You always seemed to have such a great understanding of the psyche. All of this? It’s all_ you. _I’m only pulling from your imagination. All I’m doing is … redirecting it for you.”_

Stan freezes, cold with realization, with a half-forgotten memory, dream, something — he wasn’t even sure anymore. “… That was different. _This_ is different!”

Dipper moans, loud and unabashed, oblivious to the rest of the world, and nothing, _nothing_ about this is okay, Stanley thinks— _knows_ —as he flinches away, eyes closed tight.

Bill laughs, nothing but malice in his tenor, and Stan looks back to see his triangular body slowly fade back into the black fog. “Oh _Stanley,”_ he says, tendrils once more forcing Stan’s face forward. _“We're just getting started.”_

Something—maybe the sudden difference in pitch, or the urgency—changes and Stan’s attention is all on Dipper. His head is tossed back, and his entire body is tight with tension, like coil pulled taut. His shoulders strain at the bindings, thin muscles in his chest and arms flexing as he pulls, and his voice grows more and more frantic, whines and groans as he struggles.

And _fuck._ Fuck, fuck, fuck, does Stan know that it’s messed up, but fuck. The kid … this looks good. Very good. Stan tries to shift, tries to make his own erection less noticeable, wills it to disappear with repetitive thoughts of _your brother’s grandson, your brother’s grandson, your brother’s grandson_ , but the thin cotton does nothing to hide the tent.

Dipper’s head tilts forward again, keen and whine on his lips, but his stare is no longer hazy and faraway. Stan gasps, catches himself licking his lips at the sight of the bright, glassy brown eyes that focus immediately on his own. The tendril in his mouth drags back over his lips, tracing over his cheeks and lips, and Dipper takes the opportunity to whisper, “Lee …”

Stan doesn’t know when he started panting, but his chest is heaving and everything feels too tight. He can’t look away, even after Dipper closes his own eyes tight, mouth open and panting, cheeks flushed and suddenly Stan is kissing him again, hot and messy, and whoa, the kid just tried to bite him.

“Lee …” Dipper moans, mumbling against Stan’s mouth, “Lee … _Please.”_

Stan jerks back. That wasn’t Dipper’s voice. That was … He stares the kid down, eyes still closed from the kiss and eyebrows furrowed in a pout. “Leeeeee …”

“Cipher.” Stan warns, voice rougher than he would like, knot stuck in his throat from the mixture of need and … whatever emotion hearing his brother’s voice brings.

Dipper’s body stills, only motion coming from the smokey tendrils, still throbbing along his small body. He opens his eyes slowly, looking down, face cast in a sort of dreamy pout. But the illusion is shattered almost immediately by the wide, toothy grin that spreads unnaturally over Dipper’s face. And the eyes. The glowing yellow eyes.

 _“You caught me!”_ Bill says happily, like an excited little kid. _“Oh man, this body’s into some weird stuff._ Ahhhh _…”_ Bill moans, dipping his head back for show, as one of the tendrils gives a particularly violent twist in Dipper’s boxers. _“Feels weird,”_ he cackles.

“Bill, I swear to g—“

Dipper’s eyes flash red as Bill glares back at Stan, _“To who, Stanley? To_ God _?? God ain’t here, kiddo. He’s got no place here.”_ Bill laughs as Dipper’s body is once again pulled away from Stan’s lap, and two tendrils make clumsy work of removing Dipper’s boxer, eventually just tearing them away from his legs unceremoniously. Stan can see now the way that Bill’s tendril is handling Dipper’s erection roughly, tightly. It looks painful, but Bill groans again, softer this time with a much more genuine tone, as it pulls harshly.

 _“I bet he’d love claws,”_ Bill moans, tendrils releasing Dipper’s arms from their grasp so Bill could reach down and drag nails over Dipper’s chest, leaving angry red lines all over his skin until beads of blood began welling up, gasping like it was a shock. _“I think something’s wrong with your nephew, Stanley,”_ he says, laughing.

“What do you want, Cipher?”

 _“What makes you think I want anything? Maybe I’m just, hahh, enjoying myself._ Maybe _I’m just helping you enjoy it.”_

“I’m not—”

 _“Oh, will you_ please _stop lying to yourself!”_ Bill laughs, leaning back down into Stan’s space. _“I_ know _you, remember? I know what you like, what your dreams are made of, I’ve been down some of those dusty corridors in your mind, peeked behind those bolted doors you try to pretend aren’t there.”_ Bill runs Dipper’s hands through Stan’s hair, gently scraping his bloody nails along his scalp, before whispering in Stan’s ear. _“You_ love _this. You miss this—miss the old days. You can lie to yourself all you want once it’s over, but you cannot lie to me, Stanley.”_

The tendrils bring Dipper’s body down, placing it back on Stan’s lap before retreating entirely. Bill slides up Stan’s lap, pressing himself up against his body, and Stan tries to turn his head away, to ignore the small length pressed up against his stomach. But Bill’s gentle hold in his hair devolves into a sharp grip that pulls Stan back to look him in the eye. Bill’s expression betrays the demon he is, wild smile and bright yellow eyes that track his as they to look away, until eventually he leans back in to lick Stan’s ear. _“I’m not judging you. Well, I am, but not in this anyway. A young,_ naïve _thing, that reminds you so much of your childhood lover? I don’t know who could blame you…_

“Not when he sounds so much like him, too.”

Stan’s eyes widen at the sound of his twin’s voice and tries to jerk away at the sound of Bill’s laughter. _“Oh I’m having too much_ fun _!”_ The demon sits back, hand still holding Stan’s head in place with that supernatural strength, rolling his hips against Stan’s own clothed erection, drawing a stunted groan from the man. _“Don’t worry, kid, the rest will be easy. All you have to do is sit back and enjoy it.”_

Stan closes his eyes as Bill reaches down with his—with _Dipper’s_ —free hand and pulls him from his boxers, pumping him twice with a slow, skilled hand. He’s so embarrassingly hard that it hurts, and he can’t help the relieved groan he lets out at the feel of bare skin as Bill presses back against him, moving his hips in small, forceful circles.

Bill doesn’t bother keeping his voice down, humming and gasping pleasurably into Stan’s ear as his hips pick up speed against Stan. One hand was still in Stan’s hair, alternating between gentle scratches and rough tugs, while the other started running up and down Stan’s arm, over his chest and stomach where the fog wasn’t holding him down.

Bill sits back, still rolling his hips, mouth open and panting, and looks down at Stan, bright yellow eyes lidded and almost calculating. The hand in Stan’s hair gives one big jerk, pulling his head back and exposing his throat. Stan winces at the sharp pain, closes his eyes until he feels Dipper’s tongue, trailing up his throat, dragging along his stubble. Stan gasps, unable to move his head, to look, as Bill bites. Teeth sink into his skin, hard enough to bruise, to exceed Stan’s pleasure threshold and just _hurt_. Stan feels the skin there threatening to give, Bill’s teeth threatening to puncture. But instead Bill pulls back, dragging his tongue none too gently over the teethmarks, just to move down to the juncture of his shoulder and neck and bite again harder.

“Fuck …” Stan groans, panting harshly at the pain. He gasps as he feels the dull teeth break the skin this time, feels blood welling up around the wound, but Bill doesn’t pull away. Stan hears the demon groan, low and hungry as his tongue licks the back of his teeth, tasting the blood, until finally Bill pulls back, instead sucking hard on the wound and drawing more blood.

 _“You know Stanley, I was going to try to … mmf, take this further, but your nephew seems have a pretty low threshold for pleasure,”_ Bill mumbles when he finally breaks away from Stan’s skin, voice sounds less composed than Stan’s ever heard. He gasps into Stans shoulder, rhythm becoming slightly more chaotic, more desperate. _“Fuck, Stanley, you were never this sensitive.”_ Bill moans openly, tongue tracing the wounds.

Stan gasps at Bill’s words—at the memory—but he can’t help the soft grunts he’s trying to hide. He’s close, fuck, when did that happen? He gasps, tilting his face into Dipper’s hair. He tries—maybe not hard enough, but still tries—to remember how terrible this is, how fucked up he is, but it’s getting more and more difficult. Especially when Bill starts moaning almost nonstop, composure completely gone and Dipper’s hips working fast and rough against Stan’s. Something about the sounds he’s making sounds familiar, not entire Bill, but Stan hardly cares at this point.

“Lee!” Ford’s voice cries as Bill comes, panting and shaking as his paints Stan’s stomach in waves that match his tremors. But Stan hardly notices, as he realizes exactly what Bill had done. He isn’t sure which he feels more right now, hate or need. But Dipper’s hips have stopped moving and Stan feels need win out, his own hips struggling to thrust back, but barely able to twitch with the fog wrapped around waist.

“ _Bill_ …” Stan pleads—ashamed, but he can worry about that later, he just needs a little more, just a little bit more…

 _“Well that was fun!”_ Bill says, his own voice back as he hops away from Stan, looking ridiculous with his grin and smirk while naked in shaky adolescent body covered in his own semen.

“What, Bill …” Stan groans as the cool air hits his erection, overly warm from the heat of Dipper’s body.

_“Thanks for the fun time. I’ll see you in your dreams, kid!”_

The room tilts, and Stan is suddenly awake, chest heaving and almost, _almost_ screaming.

The television is playing some extra terrible late-night show in front of him, and Dipper is fast asleep on the floor in front of him, still fully clothed, with the two fingers of brandy Stan had poured for him sitting half-full next to him.

Stan is … almost relieved— _should_ be relieved—and he almost is. Instead, he is _furious._

He is still achingly hard from the dream, drenched and sticky from sweat. He feels ... dirty. Disgusting. The slick, oily residue from the smoke is gone—it was never really there to begin with—but he can still _feel_ , the ghost of it, on his skin. He needs ... he needs a shower, he needs to get out of that room, out of the same room as Dipper. 

 _God_ , he doesn't know how he's going to look the kid in the eye for the rest of the summer. How he's going to look him in the eye ever again. 

He tries to be quiet, to not wake Dipper as he steps out of the room, heading for the bathroom, but still the chair groans and still the old floor boards creak. He holds his breath, listening to Dipper's for any sound of waking, but thankfully he only hears the even, slow in and out of sleep. 

The reflection in the mirror is worse than he thought. He's still ... he's still  _fucking_ aroused, still flushed and sweaty, but at the same time, he looks shaken. Hair mussed and unkempt and deep bags under his eyes. He splashes water over his face, bitingly cold, and it helps, but not enough. Nowhere near enough. 

He goes to pull his shirt off, to start undressing for his shower, when something catches his eye in the mirror. Something on his shoulder.

“ _Fucking_ Cipher…” Stan says, dragging his hand over the bruise there, the small ring of teeth marks broken into the skin that Stan  _knows_ would match up perfectly with Dipper's bite if he had any way to test it.  _“Fuck!”_ he says again, digging his nails hard into the bruise, as if he could pull the mark out of his skin. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

He doesn't remember deciding to punch the glass. He doesn't think he actually did decide to. He just couldn't look at he own reflection, at himself, at the proof of his own messed up mind and the reminder of past mistakes and  _fuck._ He knows he's fucked up already. He doesn't need to see it.

He remembers pulling bits of mirror out of his knuckles though. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was always supposed to have been a dream, but originally I was going to have both Dipper and Stan sharing the same dream, but I figured that I wanted to come back and expand on Stan's potential future relationship with Dipper after this, and it would just be ... depressing and extreme if that had been the case. There will be more Stan/Dip, but the majority of the story is going to focus now on Stancest. So yay! Chapter 3 should be up in a week, maybe sooner.


	3. It Really All Began Again Somewhere In the Middle Pt I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanley and Stanford have a long history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, I’m going ahead and posting the first half of this chapter, since it’s been just about finished for a few weeks now. It’s a little slow and a little weird, but I’m having a hella hard time with the second half, which should be more interesting (and have porn), but life’s been kicking my ass, and it’s already been over a month now. It’s still pretty long, and hopefully interesting enough to keep your attention.
> 
> This chapter takes place in the very early 70s, when the twins are 39 or 40. It was supposed to be one long chapter that talked about their past history, but more about that next chapter, so I guess just enjoy the ambience and them interacting, and look forward to more substance next chapter?

Stan’s not sure at all what’s propping him up. Sure as _hell_ isn’t Larry. … Jerry? Maybe Gary? _Jerrrry?_

_(“Who the fuck is Jerry?”)_

It doesn’t matter anyway, fuck that dude. Stan doesn’t need to know the name of any _deserters._ Fucking Larry.

There is that unwieldy sensation of falling without falling, like the ground beneath you is continuously dropping out from beneath you, only _not,_ and Stan vaguely comprehends that he might be walking. Or, you know, something resembling it that probably is _not_ walking. He doubts that he’s doing a very good job of anything—of _breathing_ —right now let alone something as complex as _locomotion._

_(“Jesus, Lee, we’re almost there, man. Just keep it together like 10 more feet.”)_

Stan notices that there’s an arm around his waist, fingers digging into his belt, hoisting him — Wait.

“L- Lee. Lee? Lee, Lee, Lee, _Lee_ …” What … was it about Lees? Why … why did someone just use that name, no one except …

_Except …_

Stan’s missing something. Something important. He knows it, almost has his finger on it, but it flutters away from him every time he thinks he’s got it.

_(“Come on, Lee, we’re here.”)_

Stan’s falling sensation is suddenly increased ten-fold as he actually drops into the car seat. He still can’t shake the feeling of “something is wrong” but it is _so nice_ to be sitting right now. He sort of forgot about the pain he was in until some of it was gone and such _relief_ washed through him that he sighed into the seat. He closes his eyes, and it’s a little disconcerting that the colors aren’t spinning, but it’s nice. His knuckles are still bruised — probably bleeding — and his face is swollen and he might have another broken nose, but he feels comfortable in a way. The seat smells … pleasant. There’s the odor of stale cigarettes, of dust and of old leather, and something else. Something familiar. Homey.

Stan sleeps.

 

 

Stan wakes up and everything _hurts._ He barely moves an inch to move his arm from off his face and his back spasms up with the aches of bruised muscles and sprained ribs, shoulder screeching protests. His face feels like minced meat.

Stan sits up, fighting through the worst of the pain. He’s been through a whole lot worse than this.

“You’re up.” A voice echos from somewhere to his left, and Stan looks up to see that he’s in some cheap motel room. There’s some of the ugliest matted shag green carpet Stan’s ever seen, faux wood panel walls, bedspreads that are more stains than sheets, and his twin standing in the doorway to the dinky, humid bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel. His hair is dripping down his neck and his glasses are fogged up slightly, and Stan hasn’t see him in nineteen years.

“Ford …? What are you ...” Stan murmurs, mostly to himself, before noticing the deep, dark black eye his brother is sporting. “Oh man, Ford, _I_ didn’t do that, did I?” Stan tries to think back to last night, remembers … remembers not selling anything yesterday. He almost left the whole set by a dumpster, had even walked a good twenty feet away before he realized that he had nothing else, no other options, besides those damn vacuums. He’d gone to the usual bar where nobody knew his name, but all the bartenders knew his drink, and that’s the way he liked it. Then … then he’d …

“Fuuuuckk,” Stan whines lowly, his already throbbing head aching with the forming headache that was his life. He’d been high. His twin, who he hadn’t seen since they were in their twenties and go-getters and best friends and _more, so much more,_ had seen him on heroin.

“How’s your head?” Ford asks, not exactly tenderly, but not as roughly as Stan probably deserves. Stan just groans some more, closing his eyes and laying back down on the disgusting bedspread, wishing he was dead, wishing that Greg, the bastard, had just finished the job light night.

Ford moves, but Stan doesn’t look up to see what he’s doing, doesn’t care, until he hears a rattling right in front of his face. He opens his eyes to see Ford holding a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water. He sits up and takes them both, popping three pills while Ford turns and unwraps the towel from his waist, using it to rub some of the excess water out of his hair.

“How’s your eye?” Stan asks, watching his brother rifling naked through a small brown suitcase for a pair of underwear. Ford aged well, Stan can’t help but think, staring at his bare ass. It’s been almost two decades, but Stan can still see the definition in his legs, the strength in his arms. His ass is still tone and firm, _somehow how the fuck is it not sagging._ A small amount of padding has found its way to his stomach, but Stan would bet money that he still follows the same routine everyday, still has the same abs under that padding that Stan once spent 10 minutes admiring, tracing with his fingers and tongue … before …

_Fuck._

He looks away when Ford turns around, quickly and ashamed, like the kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, eyes fixed to the floor. Ford just freezes, and Stan knows he’s been caught.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, Lee,” Ford says with the smallest amount of humor, but underlaid with so much exhaustion. He sounds _tired._ Stan wonders what he’s been doing for the last decade. The last he heard, it was 1962 and Ford graduated with his PhD in Mythological Studies and a minor in Mathematics. Stanley had gotten a small, cream invitation, with black trim and gold foil lettering, inviting him to attend the ceremony. He still isn’t sure how Ford had found the right address to send it to.

“It wasn’t you.”

“What?” Stan asks, caught off guard.

“You didn’t hit me last night. It was the guys who hit _you._ They were _really_ unhappy with you.”

“I owe them some money.” Stanley admits, scratching the side of his face, eyes finding the puke green carpet again. 

“I figured,” Ford says, stepping into his pale blue boxers. He grabs a white t shirt and tugs it on carelessly, catching them on his glasses. Stan thinks it might be inside out, but he doesn’t say anything, just glad for the lack of bare skin.

“Ford, _what_ are you doing here?” Stan asks, biting his lip. He looks at Stanford's feet, one of them covered by the dark denim, other in mid air, ready to step into the other pants leg. Ford’s looking at him, stares for a few seconds, before he sighs and finishes pulling up his jeans.

“Visiting my twin brother,” he says finally, with a strange air of nonchalance, like it hasn’t been decades since they were in the same room.

“How’d you even find me?” Stan asks. He doesn’t bother sticking around anywhere for too long, especially once his debt starts piling up too high. He’d planned on skipping town soon, anyway, maybe heading back east. Maybe make his way to New York this time.

Ford doesn’t answer right away, and Stan’s curiosity grows into something like outrage. Stan was not some child that couldn’t look after himself, that needed his brother to come save him, to watch out for him. “Have you been _following_ me?!”

“No, no. Not really. I’ve been trying to find you for a while now…” Ford says, running a hand through his damp hair, shifting to one foot. “You always tend to leave a big debt and a woman or two behind wherever you go. A ... _nice_ woman named Lissa told me you were in Nebraska.”

Stan laughs at that. Oh Lissa. She was a little spit fire and more than rough around the edges. Stan had actually liked her a lot. A little too much. He’d been getting too comfortable in Topeka. He almost stayed for her, thought about maybe asking her to come with him, but that was even more reason to move on.

“How’s she doing?”

“She seemed fine. A little upset, but too world-weary to be heartbroken. She was a little surprised to learn that _‘Stenly’_ had a much more handsome twin brother.”

Stan laughs at the joke, but this all feels so surreal. It comes out canned and a little more forced than he would like, before trailing into nothing.

Ford goes back to his bag, reorganizing it slightly after rooting around in it, like the fucking nerd he was, and Stan mulls over the words that he wasn’t quite sure how to say. “I should … I should go home. Change, shower, you know? Maybe fix my face a little.” Stan’s not sure if he plans on really going back to his apartment or not, if he plans on coming back at all, but he wants the option. He needs to get away, to think a little clearer, to decide.

Ford looks over with an indecipherable look, and for a second, Stan thinks he’s going to tell him not to go, going to try to stop him—fuck, Stan would try to stop himself if he were Stanford—but instead he just shrugs.

“I’ll drive you.”

“No, no. I’m good walking,” Stan says, getting up and stretching backwards. Pain shoots up his back and before he can stop himself, he curls in on himself.

Ford just stands there, looking down at Stan’s gasping form, hunched over staring at the green shag. “I’ll drive,” he says again.

 

 

Fat, heavy drops of rain are falling as Stan struggles to get in the car, pain blossoming in his side and back as he tries to twist into the car. Ford doesn’t bother to help him, just stands to the side holding the door open, watching to make sure Stan doesn’t actually fall, and Stan appreciates that. They know how the other works, and Stan hates being coddled over.

He finally lands in the seat with a thud, car dipping with the weight, and he sighs, tossing his legs in carelessly. The rain is still falling heavily and loudly on the car, and Stan runs his hand though his wet hair as Ford shuts the door.

He still isn’t sure how he feels about seeing his brother. He’s glad, he knows, at some level, but it’s buried under so much confusion and pride that he also doesn’t notice. What do you say to the person that you left behind?

Ford, at least, doesn’t seem angry, as he unlocks the driver’s side, getting in wordlessly. Stan takes a second to look around. It’s not a nice car, but it’s in better shape than the car he's been half-living out of. The seats are worn, but they're leather, and the radio isn’t cracked or missing buttons. Ford confirms that it does work when he turns the key, and the dial lights up—a murky, dirty yellow, but still lit. It’s playing so quietly that Stan can’t hear, but he doesn’t bother to turn it up.

Stan looks out the window as Ford pulls out of the space, watching the rivers of water fracture and warp his picture of the outside. It’s probably 4 or 5 in the morning and still dark outside, but he catches his reflection in the side view mirror from the light coming down from the motel.

“Ah, jeez,” he groan, tenderly touching his nose tenderly. It’s got a tell-tale cut across the bridge, and bruising blooming out under each eye. He winces when he presses his fingers to it, tender and painful. “Fuck.”

“Broken?”

“I think so,” he grumbles, just as they pull away and Stan loses his reflection to the darkness.

“Where am I going?”

The ride is uncomfortably quiet besides Stan’s occasional grunted direction. Almost … professional. Clinical. Ford doesn’t seem bothered by the coldness, but Stan’s leg starts bouncing nervously about half-way through the ride. He still doesn’t know what to say to his twin. He didn’t exactly leave on good terms.

“You’re biting your nails.”

“Oh … oh.” Stan says, pulling his fingers away from his mouth. The cuticles on his ring finger were already bleeding, and Stan realizes that they missed a turn a while back, he was so lost in thought.

“Look, I …” Ford starts, eye still forward on the road, “I know this is … awkward. And sudden. But … it really doesn’t have to be, Lee. I was never- no. That’s not true. I wanted to punch your face in for a while, but … I’m not mad anymore. I don’t think I was ever mad. I just- I was hurt.”

Stan looks at him, chewing on his lip. He should apologize, he knows. Or say he’s not mad anymore either. Or says he never meant to hurt anyone, he’d just … needed to …

Stan doesn’t say any of that, though. Doesn’t know how. He just sighs and says, “Make a U-turn up here.”

 

 

Stan’s apartment is … gross. Stan knows this; he almost doesn’t feel apologetic, but he isn’t an unclean person by nature. The apartment came with the bugs, the stains in the carpet, the cracks in the wall. He used to care, but that was a long, long time ago, when he still thought he could afford to care, when he hadn’t realized how little he actually had.

The fluorescent bulb buzzes noisily to life, casting the small apartment in its dingy, yellow light. It’s only two rooms, plus a bathroom that isn’t really a bathroom, just a leaky shower head and a toilet.

“Mi casa,” Stan welcomes, with a sarcastic, grand gesture at the ten by fourteen mash of couch, kitchen, and folding table. There is a small, decade old tv on the card table that maybe works on one or two channels—Stan never actually watches it, just turns it on for background noise some nights—when it gets too quiet and empty—so he couldn’t even tell you what he gets. He’s got a stack of books piled up in boxes between the couch and the dirty window, full of everything that he’s picked up over the years, with the occasional magazine thrown in. His dishes from this morning—yesterday morning?—are still piled in the sink, covered by a crawling layer of cockroaches.

Stan really expect Ford to say something about his state of living, has been bracing himself for it since Ford insisted on driving, but rather than some disgusted look or piteous comment, Ford just looks around before plopping himself down on the couch, picking one of the books from the top of the pile.

“ _Ethan Frome…_ Any good?” he asks, holding up his worn paperback copy.

“Eh,” Stan shrugs, closing and locking the door behind him. “Slow start.”

Ford just nods, opening it up like he hadn’t heard a thing and settling back to read.

“There’s beer and coffee in the kitchen, maybe some stuff for sandwiches,” Stan throws back at his twin, knowing full well that Ford probably hadn’t even heard him if he was reading. He gets a mumbled reply, automatic and distracted, and Stan smiles a little.

Stan’s bedroom is nothing more than a lazily made bed—which had come with the apartment—and the same worn trunk of clothes he’d been living out of for more than a decade. He doesn’t spend very long in there—never really does—just grabs a change of clothes, before backtracking to the hallway. He glances Ford’s way—still sitting in the same spot he was before, now idly chewing on his thumbnail as he read—before heading into the small bathroom.

The mirror on the back of the bathroom door is scratched, stained with white calcium deposits that Stan can’t get out. He sees his face again, better this time, despite the dimness of the bare bulb. He’s got quite a few cuts high on his cheeks, a few on his temple. Some dried blood is stuck in his eyebrow, dripping from his nose—which is probably broken, _fuck._ His jaw is bruised, ugly shades of purple and yellow. His own left eye is black, swollen enough that it can’t open the whole way.

Stan sighs. He’s got a first aid kit in the kitchen that he should probably go fetch, but he wants the shower first. He checks himself for more injuries as he undresses, worries that he might have a broken rib on his right side from how bad the swelling and bruising is there. His knuckles are still sore and swollen, small cuts and bits of torn skin hanging from the worst wounds, and it takes him a while to work the belt from the loops.

The water is cool, not quite _cold_ yet, and maybe the furnace will even kick in and warm it up before anyone else in his building gets up—it _is_ fuck-all early in the morning, maybe, _maybe,_ he can actually get a hot shower for once before his neighbors steal it from him. Still, he doesn’t waste time waiting for the water to warm, pouring a little bit of shampoo straight into his hair and rubbing it in, finding a couple of cuts in his scalp at the sting of soap in the open wounds.

The bar of soap is trickier. His fingers can’t grip it too hard for too long, and it’s hard for him to move and twist, back and ribs still stealing his breath away whenever he moves too fast, but eventually—thankfully—the water begins to warm, and Stan doesn’t mind so much. It turns hot, and Stan actually sighs, letting the water spray over his sore back.

By the time he’s done, he feels much, much less tense. His back doesn’t seize up everytime he so much as twitches, and his eye’s swelling has gone down a bit. He walks out of the bathroom in the t shirt and jeans that he grabbed.

“Took you long enough,” Ford says from the small kitchen. Stan is met with the smell of coffee and …

“Are you making eggs?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Stan’s stomach rumbles. He hasn’t eaten in about 20 some hours and eggs sound really great right about now. He stumbles into the kitchen, scratching his chest through the shirt, and pours himself some coffee and grabs the small metal first aid box out from under the sink.

Ford doesn’t say anything as Stan starts to dress his cuts, starting with his knuckles. He’s almost out of bandages, so he only dabs at them with alcohol, hissing through the burn. He lifts his shirt to check his right side again, feeling the bruising carefully with his fingertips, pressing as tenderly as he could to gauge the state of the ribs. It hurts like a motherfucker, and he cries out when it presses down on one rib in particular, fingers clenching around the edge of the table as he breathes through the pain.

“Is it broken?” Ford asks, setting two plates of scrambled eggs down.

“Maybe, I ‘unno. Maybe fractured or something. Nothing I haven’t handled before, though” he says, picking at the eggs. He hopes it’s not too bad, he doesn’t have insurance, and he doesn’t know any ‘doctors’ in the area to look him over.

Ford hums, sliding the ketchup over and Stan smiles a little at how even after all these years, Ford still remembers how Stan likes his eggs.

Ford finishes his eggs first, grabbing his plate and setting it in the sink. He walks past Stan and grabs his jacket off the couch.

“Where are you going?”

“I need a quick cigarette,” Ford says, patting the jacket pockets, finally digging into one to fish out a beaten up box.

“It’s raining, you can smoke in the house,” Stan says, pushing himself up slowly and grabbing his own plate. Ford shrugs, fishing a lighter out of his pocket as Stan grabs the ashtray off the top of the fridge and sets it on the table.

“I thought you quit?” Stan asks, holding out his hand to ask for one. Ford shakes two out, handing one to Stanford.

“I did a few times. Doesn’t last very long,” Ford says, shrugging, flicking his lighter to life. He takes a slow drag, smooth and steady, before exhaling and handing Stan the lighter.

Stan lights his quicker, one sharp inhale. It’s not his brand, so it’s sharp, foreign as he breathes deep, exhaling downwind as he hands Ford his cheap lighter back. “I know the feeling,” Stan mutters without thinking.

Ford gives him one quick, wary look, putting his lighter away and taking another drag. Stan always liked the way Ford held his cigarette, between his middle and forefinger, right at the knuckle, so that he covers his mouth every time he takes a drag.

“Do you remember when Ashley first got you to try a cigarette?” Ford asks, smile tugging up his lip as he looks at the burning embers.

“I was only eleven.”

“I know. You were sick for the rest of the day.”

“Ugh. I didn’t know how to do it back then. You didn’t either.”

“I wasn’t dumb enough to try, either,” Ford says playfully.

Stan laughs, “You didn’t have a crush on her! You’ve done it, too!”

Ford just laughs in response, taking another drag and smiling as he exhales. “Good old Ashley…”

Stan's laughter slowly that dies down. He takes another hit, and another, finally feeling the nicotine ebbing away at his headache, loosening up his joints. They smoke in silence, Stan’s crappy fan blowing the cigarette smoke into patterns all across the room.

When Stan’s almost done with his cigarette, maybe one, two more puffs left, Ford sighs. Stan looks back, and sees the set look on his face, staring at the finished stub. “Lee, I …” he starts, but wavers. He sounds … not quite unsure, but hesitant. He closes his eyes, and opens them again to look straight at Stan.

“I want you to come with me,” Ford says, smooth as the smoke swirling around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, we'll learn more about their past in the next chapter. Sorry if this one was super boring, it ended up being way more of a filler chapter than I meant. I'll try to make it up!! :/
> 
> I’m thinking about writing a Stan/Dip oneshot in the mean time, but I’m conflicted since I want to use the idea for this story too … so maybe I’ll write them with alternate endings and post the one that won’t be used in this story soonish. :? Thoughts?


End file.
